


Satisfaction

by JanuaryBlue



Series: And so the Dark did covet the Light [2]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Aggressive Dom, Angst, Ascians (Final Fantasy XIV), Banter, Being Lahabrea is suffering, Biting, Choking, Consensual Sex, Consentacles, F/M, Hate Sex, Light Masochism, Marking, POV Second Person, Power Bottom, Service Sub, Sorry for the Angst tag, claw kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-02
Updated: 2020-01-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:01:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22086817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JanuaryBlue/pseuds/JanuaryBlue
Summary: “Running awayagain,are you?!”In which you taunt an Ascian who is more than capable of biting back.One of you has bitten off more than you can chew, certainly. The other isinsatiable.But which is which?
Relationships: Lahabrea (Final Fantasy XIV)/Reader, Lahabrea/Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV)
Series: And so the Dark did covet the Light [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1649320
Comments: 14
Kudos: 81





	Satisfaction

**Author's Note:**

> Because this might be unclear - this takes place DURING HEAVENSWARD. During 3.0! Think after Nabriales dies, and before the Dragonsong War is over (and Laha and Iggy fuse souls for the powerup!)
> 
> It contains spoilers for Shadowbringers, which should be obvious given how my works tend to go, but being set during 3.0 means I felt like I should warn people.

“Running away _again,_ are you?!”

You know it’s not a good idea to shout it after the Ascian. He’s on his way out, which is what you want. But really, after all that fighting, you’re _itching_ for some sort of resolution. He can’t just pop in, empower some enemy for you to fight, and suddenly decide you are not worth his time once you've slain it. He cannot treat you like he has before.

After defeating him once, after killing one of his kind, you deserve some respect. To be feared, to have your prowess acknowledged; you deserve nothing less than to watch him cower before you.

You most explicitly do _not_ deserve his little tirades and mockery and jibes at mortals in general. He has no right to act like you’re so far beneath him, not after losing to you like he has. As he turns – you ready your weapon, because he doesn’t think mortals have honor anyways, and only a fool would bare his back to someone he’d just tried to kill.

Instead of teleporting away, or disappearing, Lahabrea hovers there, in midair, his expression – or what you could see of it – impossible to discern past that damnable hood.

“I’m surprised you even confronted me at all, without that partner of yours here to help. Can you do anything at all on your own? The one time you _did_ try, you lost.”

You’re taunting him _,_ which is not a good idea, but what does it matter if it's such a bad idea? He has this coming. Every word of it. Who does Lahabrea think he is, acting like –

“Since your need for bloodshed is so _great,_ Warrior of Light,” You hear his voice, sneering and underlain with something like a rasp, “Mayhap I shall oblige you.”

As he turns, a fire just sparks in the corner of your vision, and you just barely have time to retreat before a sphere of flames expands wide into a miniature sun, orange and searing the air around it, flames just catching on the empty space nearby, barely singing the ends of your hair as you flee.

Oh, so that’s his story, is it? _Your_ need for bloodshed? After Elidibus had called him a ‘Warrior’ – he’s hardly any different from you. A powerful champion dedicated to doing the will of his dark god. The one here who sought bloodshed was _him -_ always him, always the Ascians, here to spread chaos and corruption.

He doesn’t get to call you a bloodthirsty ingrate who he’s indulging with a spar. You’ve _killed_ Ascians before. And he'd been the one to initiate this battle - by his design did things come to blows, though he hardly ever bothered before to fight on his own damned behalf.

Lahabrea is facing you now, arm and claws outstretched, fine lips curved into a smirk under that mask that seemed to contort its brows with a similar smugness.

“Was that not enough?” He drawls, and you fingers curl with the need to press themselves violently into his features, smash that mask away from his face, “I must needs do more to satisfy you?”

“Please _try_ ,” You say lowly, fixing your gaze on him with narrowed eyes, settling into a battle stance as you prepared for his next attack, “Because I find myself quite **unsatisfied**.”

You only have a moment before the sigil actives in front of his face, and the violet hue of his Shadow Flare bursts into being around the both of you.

A mage, of course, and he’s always fighting like one. Always floating from afar, mocking from the sidelines, casting magic like nothing you’d ever seen, freely and with a wicked vehemence. With an attitude like his, so arrogant and above it all, he could stand to get up close and personal for once, no?

As soon as the spell is cast, your onslaught begins; you sprint straight into him, slamming into his robed body. He’s caught entirely unawares, and the two of you hit the ground, rolling once, twice, before you manage to pin him beneath you, your hands encircling his wrists and pressing them down, preventing any spellcasting on his part.

“Well?” That mask red as blood stares back at you, indifferent in a way you know Lahabrea is not, from the curl of the lip, the way his arms twitch underneath you, “Is that all? I thought you were going to sate my _need for bloodlust_ , Lahabrea.”

You take great pleasure in looking down at him as you say it, baring your teeth in a vicious grin, leering in towards his face. Licking your lips, you trail your tongue very deliberately over your teeth, eyeing the precious little skin his ensemble does bare.

A narrow chin, the very beginning of the curve of a terribly elegant jawline. His lips, by far the easiest target, the best place to bite to make him _bleed_.

“Mayhap, mortal, you will find you have bitten off more than suits even your ravenous appetite,” Lahabrea jerks his hands, pulling at your arms, but he’s not the strength to shove you off. A leg bucks up to try and knee you, but you quickly thread your legs over his, trapping them in place effectively.

You’re pulled into a darkness, a purple sphere which expands and engulfs the both of you, entrapping you in abyssal black.

When the world reappears, it is somewhere you do not recognize at all. The architecture here is nothing like the Chrysalis; in fact, it resembles an apartment room more than anything. The furniture and décor is lined and gold-rimmed, fashioned like nothing you’ve ever seen.

Whatever this means of teleportation entailed, it wasn't the ordinary kind. Instead of remaining on the ground, you dropped from mid-air, the freedom of movement allowing Lahabrea to throw his arms back from your grasp and seize at your sides, spinning you beneath him as you fall.

To your surprise, your back hits a soft surface that gives to your touch. Aether, dark purple and writhing, erupts from his hands, clawtips digging into your armor. The aether swirls over you in tendrils, wrapping around your torso with smaller branches that trickle over your arms and legs, snaking around them and pulling your limbs taut to the mattress, immobilizing you.

“Go,” You say to that red mask which you suddenly, desperately want to rip off, “To hell.”

“Make me,” Lahabrea snarls in a retort that seems almost juvenile for someone who holds himself in such high esteem, lips hovering ilms from yours, his breath hot on your face.

You don’t know how it happens, but suddenly his head is tilted to the side, the strange fangs of his mask brushing against your cheek as his lips meet yours. They’re so much softer than they looked, but just about as supple, more yielding than the man himself – it does not say much, but the press of them on your mouth is warm and blooming with an invigorating pressure. They part right away and a tongue slips through into your mouth, tracing freely.

Remembering yourself, remembering the thrice-damned restraints he has on you – ones that wriggle and undulate in a strange way, not entirely unpleasant – you bite down hard on those supple lips, letting his tongue just barely escape from the side as he pulls away.

“Do you,” Lahabrea parts, panting open-mouthed. Blood dripping down his lip. “Want to?”

You blink. “Want to?”

“Make me.” The words sound like a sigh and a hiss both at once.

Your tongue darts out to wet your lips.

“Show me your face,” You command without agreeing to anything, and Lahabrea scoffs in response, hand rising to your neck as you laid back, prone, before him. The clawtips just barely touch your skin before he stops, lips pursing.

“I’m not going to do this with you if I can’t see your face.” You’re not going to fuck a man you couldn't look in the eyes. You had – well, clearly your standards had fallen, since you were apparently considering an Ascian as a bed partner, but they hadn’t fallen _that_ far.

His hand strays down your neck to where it meets your shoulders, lingering. Tendrils of aether above your clothes tense and tighten.

“I require a _real_ answer. A yes. Or a no.”

“My answer,” You say without thinking, “Is yes. As long as you don’t wear that mask while you fuck me.”

Lahabrea seems to flinch away at the word, despite keeping an impassive face, backing away imperceptibly.

“What? Would you prefer to _make love?”_ Your words are venomous and made for hurting and you know it, but Lahabrea is your enemy and what else had he been expecting? He would be more insulted if you had suggested the reverse, you’re sure.

When you ask him to remove his mask, Lahabrea wants to laugh in your face and hear you scream as he burns it off. It would burn him, too, at this distance, and you might get to see his mask as it crumbled into the ash it may as well be, for all it meant anymore.

And the thought of your face covered in burns makes him want to claw his own eyes out.

He knows not how he has come to be this way (yes yes he does), why he has come to be this way (of course the summoning, that much aether, it had warped their souls, he was so foolish why didn’t he-)

But he does know that he hates it (he is permitted to hate himself) and he knows you are looking up and him and you _want to see his face._

No one has wanted to see his face in well over twelve thousand years (no one has _ever_ wanted to see).

Having this level of intimacy with a Sundered (you are as good as any of the unsundered, in time you will best even emet-selch in all his might borrowed from the underworld), broken creature is _disgusting_ and he should be disgusted at the idea of it (nothing in his life has ever disgusted him _less_ ) –

And then you tell him you want to fuck him.

Even with the control of a master, you pinpoint his reaction and mock it (you’re returning to him the malice he’s spat at you, what is there to complain about). Even though _you_ are the crude, disgusting mortal (they can’t help being mortal, they never had a choice and he _mocks_ them for it, a fallacy among fallacies).

You ask him if he would prefer to _make love_ (yes, he would prefer that, how kind of you to ask, but you are not asking. he was the only one who bothered to _ask._ do you simply not know any better? it’s strange that his heart still has it in him for that twinge of distress.) and he decides he has grown weary of your voice (of what you have to say) and tears into your lips with his, once more, letting the mask dissolve into a swirl of aether.

When he feels you lapping, tasting the blood on his lips, sucking over the wound as you took it into your mouth. With your lips sealed over it he can only lap at your upper lip, but soon he grows tired of it, and there are yet better things to occupy his attention.

Bloodlust, indeed. How amusing. If his mouth so delights you, though, there is no point denying you; he is your lover this night, even if you are not his. And even then… cloth and metal, buckles and clasps all fall apart under his hands.

When you pull away, he knows already what you mean to ask, but your eyes pause on his face for a moment. What did he look like again? He kept forgetting. Forgetting so many things. So many vessels, so many bodies. What did the appearance matter for? What mattered was the soul (and his is ruined anyways, worn down and untouched and bearing the weight of his comrade’s ridicule for millennia).

You must like what you see, because you look for longer, giving him time to work your raiment up to just below your arms, with hands and aetheric appendages. With a pointed look he raises it up, and you stare back, expectantly.

“If you would have me bared to you, make it so for yourself, Warrior.” Your eyes narrow, a fire sparking in them that has him speaking even further, “If you are _capable_ of such a thing, of course.”

He watches you, with a distant sort of amusement, struggle against the strands of aether wrapped about your body. Unfortunately, since he had pushed up your top, your midsection is mostly free, a weakness in his grip you seize immediately, undulating to coax his tethering from your legs and freeing your limbs with controlled tugs and movements that stretch them in ways to give you more leave, writhing away from them before they can tighten again.

All this, he watches, your squirming, writhing form beneath him; to hinder or help would ruin the entertainment, no? How his lips twitch at the sight; the tendrils flutter, making your job perhaps the slightest bit easier, and when you rise you waste no time pinning him down once more.

There is a pleasure to denying you, to putting tasks upon you and watching you pounce on them with fervor and intent – even if the heat is not at _all_ the way he wants it, it’s still more warmth than he’s ever felt in the entirety of these damned twelve thousand years in this fragmented nightmare of a world.

His robes strain and tear and _rip_ under your fingers as you claw them apart with no delicacy and it feels _glorious._

It is an elation like no other, to have hungry hands roaming over his chest where the core of his aether, weary and worn, rests, stirred to life again by your touch. Something _churns_ in his breast as you unwrap him, as though you cannot wait to get to his _real_ self, tearing off the covering without hesitation, throwing it to the side and savoring the feel of him under your palms.

The hood and mask and robes (and boots, they had been removed before you got on the bed, he is not a _savage_ ) are gone, but his gloves you have not removed.

This time he does not bother to use his hands until he lifts your top over your shoulders – his breath catching as you halt your caresses with what looks like reluctance – and slides the bottom half of your ensemble away, too, tugging with aether more than anything else, holding you up himself as you’re forced to kick off your lower garments.

_Then_ he reaches to trace your body with cool clawtips, watching you shiver even as you grasp and knead the supple flesh of his own form. He does not remember what it looks like, what it feels like, but you are pleased with it, which is what matters; though he is a man of action and means to please you, not to watch you take your pleasure in him.

But you touch him more and more and slowly, he remembers what it had been like to feel (had it ever felt like this?).

Had it been like this? At the graze of his claws little tremors go through you, muscles tense that he can _feel_ them moving beneath his hands, such blunt and ineffective and inelegant mortal things. The same things that let your hands clasp hard over the curve of his hip, press fingers into his sinew to watch him groan in something like relief, explore every ilm of him to map out in the memory of touch as well as vision.

As though you could touch all of him, feel all of him, _lay claim_ to all of him with such a thing as your mere hands. You must needs be shown better.

Lahabrea lets loose the tendrils again, coming from no particular source; born merely of his aether poured unto you, moving as an external limb completely in tune with his senses. He feels himself coil around you once more, feels the aether split into multitudes that spiderweb over your bared flesh, ready and waiting to apply pressure or movement.

And then you lean in to him, falling to his neck, at first to kiss – and then to _bite._ Savage, indeed. Your teeth are hard on his pulse, sink easily into the tender flesh there, and the sting of it is not entirely unlikeable… but to be on the receiving end is too dull, too passive.

Leaving one at your back, he cards a hand in your hair, pressing your face into his neck as he bids his aether take form, solidifying with a sudden texture and presence all over your body that sends shocks wracking through you that he feels with his hand on your back and through the tendrils themselves. He indulges himself in a cackle, holding your head to his neck despite how you bite deeper, drawing blood.

You only prove his point, you know. Lusting after the taste of him like that. Keep doing it.

“Such _thirst,_ ” He murmurs, and feels your breath almost hitch at the sound before you bite even harder.

He lets the tendrils dance over you in a feeling like no other. The most accurate analogy would be a net, fitted to your form exactly, of the softest and most tender material; his aether presses into you but does not dig, does not feel like anything other than the smoothest and warmest of flesh; a tongue, almost, but they are thin now and cover much of you in tiny nets that pulse and squirm over you in the barest and most delectable of movements.

The whine against his neck, how you pull back and lick at your work, has him laughing all the more. Even when your fingers dig into his shoulders in warning-but-not-warning he does not stop, because the pain is feeling, too, and Lahabrea has spent a great deal of time not feeling. Feeling too much. (he really doesn’t know anymore.)

He widens the branches of aether that coat over you, necessarily forming many smaller ones into large ones, perhaps the width of a finger. With such a size he makes more concentrated movements; cupping the flesh of your breasts, caressing them, squeezing and undulating and applying pressure in various ways.

It is a fine enough game, to learn your reactions, the curl of your fingers, the twist of your hips, the hardening of your form over his as you try to pull away. All are cataloged and carefully noted, the associated sensation and touch which evoked the reaction repeated or adjusted as required.

How you gasp when he makes a certain flick over your nipples, or when he squeezes in _just_ a way so as to coax loose the stress from tired muscle and sinew. Especially rewarding are the little sounds, like mewls almost, that he wins when he snakes a tentacle long over both your breasts, down your belly and around the base of both of your thighs, tantalizingly close to that spot between your legs he knows is growing ever more sensitive.

He _pulls_ on the tendril, dragging it across all that skin, drawing a long, low keen from you that sets alight a fire in him like nothing else. Just to hear it again, he meets the end of the it and _squeezes_ over you, and this time when you shriek you dig your nails into his skin and scratch down the front of his chest, brushing past his nipples none too lightly.

A sharp, relieving sensation, that crackles over him in lines of levin over his chest. They’re red, when he glances down at him, but you had not drawn blood. How disappointing. But at least this is leave – or as good as – to leave marks upon _you._

Your breasts, your waist, over your shoulders and clavicle, around your thighs and even up on your belly; all of it is worthy of interest, exploration, experimentation, and the unspoken claim that went with it. You will not like having your arms or legs restrained, and to touch at your neck would immediately seem like a threat, so that is passable.

“Are you going to fuck me or not?” You snap between pants, as his roaming aether teases from one place to another, having acclimated to your tastes.

No, he thinks. This is not his will, not how he would have you.

But it feels good, better than anything he has had before (anyone he has had, ever), and the thrill of drawing even more cries from your body, even more assaults from your lips and teeth and hands, is irresistible enough to make it irrelevant.

Daringly he trails his claw down your back, over your hip, and between your legs, just slipping the single digit between the lips of your sex, lengthwise in line with it, pressing the back of his claw into your folds. He cannot feel the wetness on his skin, but the way his finger slides easily up and down confirms to him that you are well lubricated already.

With the way your fingertips press hard into his skin, how you turn your face in, curling to lick and nip on his shoulder in a way that has them jerking up involuntarily. In turn he runs a near razor-sharp edge of his ornamental talons along tender, delicate flesh, just enough for you to _feel_ the line of sharpness along your most intimate area, teasing. Lingering.

A hand threads itself over the front of his throat, squeezing in warning, more of your fingers pressing over his skin, into his sinew and the bone of his windpipe. Holding over him, feeling his pulse and his breath and clenching without mercy.

That just means you can _feel_ him laugh. Go on, choke him, won’t you? He wants to feel you try. Feel your hands on his throat trembling and loosening as you lose yourself to bliss from his touch.

And you do, your hand clamps down to make good on your threat, each of his breaths grows more shallow and thin as he can suck in less and less air. It does not matter. His aether spreads your thighs apart, tugging at them from the base while the ones on your torso slither down to your sex, threading between the lips of it and wrapping around your thighs, pulling taut to spread it even wider in a particularly debauched display.

Your fingers flit on his neck, a wave going through them for just a moment, and then you continue, thumb reaching for his pulse, wrapping around him more thoroughly. He growls, just to give you something more to feel, but it comes out with a slight wheeze. 

Lahabrea wastes no time, pulling his finger up so that just the tip of his claw grazed over your sex, a bare point of focus against hot, swollen flesh. He traces around your clit deliberately, and you feel a swell of pleasure build to meet him when he presses down, stopping just before the point he would break skin.

The hand on his neck is starting to grow numb, yet you apply only more pressure. His claws dance and flutter over your folds, and with his unadorned fingers he is more brazen, bearing down right on your clit for a moment with his second to last digit, sending a jolt of pleasure through you.

Crying out at the sensation – mocking him with the breaths that are becoming increasingly difficult to take – your hips squirm under the sensation, until he tightens the coils about them, holding you in place as he draws away.

He can _feel,_ through the aether and his hand hover just a ways away, the need that trembles through your body. The need for _him._ The tightness of your hand on him that only gets stronger, stronger, never weaker and feels him with the most peculiar of sensations.

Vulnerability? He is not truly at your mercy. Desperation? He will function without air for as long as necessary. But it feels _like_ those things, a curious mix of urgency in his chest, in the lungs of this body made of only pure aether. The pulse of his blood through his body, throbbing against your hand, has risen steadily in his awareness until it has become far too prominent to ignore.

It is burning, consuming, and altogether _intoxicating._ Even as he grows numb to your hold, this need thrums through his body, through every fiber of his being, inundating him, even as his fingers flicker and wobble with this airy lightness that permeates his senses.

And still his aether moves to his will. The tendrils undulate over you, instead, one curling down to twist and pry at your sex, bearing down around your clit as a coil of smooth, slick muscle, and then unwinding to drag the length of it across your folds.

It is slick, and smooth, easily gliding over you and as it moves your flesh _throbs_ against it. You can practically feel the pulse of blood into your lower half as the tentacle slips over it, the match to the finnicky heartbeat under your hand, and the stutter of air that just barely trickles through.

The tendrils guide your hips, maneuvering you; Lahabrea makes no attempt to remove your hand from his neck or your face from his shoulder, but your hips are snapped up, and guided back down, stopping just before you feel a nudge against your sex. 

What enters you feels terribly small, thinner than your thumb, and deliciously slimy, some strange manner of lubricant oozing from it such that you can feel it drip out at your entrance.

There’s barely any pressure for it, just a gentle part to your walls as it slides inside without resistance. Once within, however, it curls, coiling slightly and expanding as it does, stretching you gently. The waves of its flex against your walls are tender but delectably solid, with a supple give that allows it to slip out, and then in, and out again without resistance, the twist of it whetting your appetite as it dragged over you before coming out.

When it is his cock pressing against your entrance – or rather, you are pressed on it _by_ those tendrils – it bumps against your opening, slightly, and is guided in place just as you feel them tilt you ever so slightly, then lowering your weight to drop you on him perfectly, sliding straight home in an instant.

He fucks himself into you with those same tendrils; tireless, powerful, seemingly wrapping and grasping over your thighs and hips with neither effort nor chafing. They feel like nothing, and the further they slide you along his length the more they feel like warmth - encompassing, wrapping and curling easily along your skin.

Finally, you use your other hand to push yourself up and off his chest. The tendrils of his aether do not stop you; they merely continue swinging your hips up and forth, as they have been doing, pumping you lewdly on his cock without any effort on your behalf.

You look down at his face, red and flushed, your hand drawn tight on the neck beneath it. That beautiful hair that shines like gold, those _eyes –_ it stuns you still, he is probably even more attractive than he had been with Thancred as his host; that narrow jaw and chin, his lips plump and swollen from your attentions.

His eyes do not meet yours, but rather gaze up, glassy, as though into the distance, as though experiencing some kind of otherworldly rapture to which you are not privy. His cock is hard enough inside you, pulsing and catching against your walls as you feel yourself sliding up and down it, but his hands are lax by his sides as he fucks himself with your body, stiff and gloved and unmoving.

Those tendrils of his aether guide your joining, tight along your flesh as your hand is on his neck, almost clutching at you; when you feel his cock begin to twitch with telltale signs of release, or the beginnings of one. You’re held tighter, but not an unpleasant tightness; like being wrapped up in a blanketing embrace, a comforting security, a grasp that guides you and stays you from falling.

You feel the pulse under your neck flit wildly, and more wildly, as his eyes wince shut in the beginning of his release – is there something dewing at the corners of them? The thought is torn from you as the creeping swirls of aether, losing substance now that he is close and burning all the more for it, sweep back over to the crest of your sex to graze over your clit.

Which each time he thrusts you upon him, you add your own weight, feeling waves lap and pool in your lower half, magnetized by the tendril that flicks over your clit with increasingly less delicacy. Sweeping over it, curling around it, undulating over your skin into it, each movement jerks your lust in a different direction, adds another heavy need to the tug in your sex that builds and builds _and builds._

And finally _squeezing,_ bringing you at last to your peak, pleasure soaring bright in your lower half as you fall down on him once again. You let loose his throat, then, and he does not gasp, does not suck in, but you feel it, _hear_ it, almost, in the way his entire body tremors beneath you, in the way those tendrils of aether dissolve at last, leaving behind sticky blackness marked over your skin as you fall down on top of him.

A hand moves to claw wide over your ass, tips just barely scratching over your skin, more a pull than anything else as he tugs you further onto him, _closer_ into him, and you feel his chest finally _heave_ with euphoric breath as his own release pours through him – and into you.

His face is just as red and flushed, but you have the pleasure of watching his lashes flutter, of hearing that gasp shorten into desperate, breathless pants that seem to whimper out of him, almost delicate like glass in his throat. It’s red, now, and you wouldn’t be surprised if it bruised. You want it to bruise. To leave a mark on him.

But he is an Ascian, a strange, immortal cultist bent on causing Calamities. Literal Calamities that killed millions of people. He’s made of aether, and is properly more an “it” than a “he” – not something that could properly be called a human being at all.

So why did those eyes, fluttering open in the lazy haze of release, catching bright and vivid gold in the light, look so terribly… _sentimental?_ You can’t think of the word, because nothing feels right, it doesn’t feel right at all for him to be looking at you with an unguarded gaze that seems to take in everything, those eyes that run indifferently over your form and seem transfixed all the same, that brow that draws tight with malice even as his features remain open and relaxed.

It’s like he’s not looking at you at all, but he is looking _at all_ of you. He licks over the lips that you’d bitten and runs a hand over the neck you’d crushed and doesn’t wince, even though you see his pupils dilate in pain – pleasure – whatever it is he feels. Freak.

You think that, and for a moment you almost feel sick. But leaning on his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of the breathing that had so recently been entirely under your power, your mind drifts to other things. Sweat-dewed, tender skin cooling flush against yours, the stroke of his fingers over your back, the sound of his heart beat in his chest, warm and thrumming and no different from any mortal you’d ever known. Any _person_ you’d ever known.

A hand cards through your hair, talons gently brushing against your scalp, pulling delicately through the strands so as not to cut. You let him have his release, his moments of pleasure, and you lie there, letting him pet you, letting him stroke you. It’s good. It feels good. Warm. Comfortable.

He must feel it, too, because his hands tighten, just a bit; his arms around you pressing you closer into him, letting you feel flesh against flesh, bared to you entirely. His hand on your back never breaks contact, first stroking, and then tracing idly over the skin, at first a lovely distraction, then a tickle, but as your body cooled, the claws grew less comfortable to the touch, with the heat of arousal drained entirely.

The afterglow seeps from you, warm pleasure dulling away as the seconds pass, and the feel of his hands on you become unwelcoming in their curling possession, in their unwanted – unexpected – unnecessary – _unreal_ affection. 

Without a word you stiffen, and when you pull up and away his arms simply fall off of you. The one on your back drifts from your spine to your side where the weight of it drags his talons just a touch heavy over your skin, and this time the razor edge of it makes itself know, scratching enough to draw blood.

It's a minor wound, but nothing important. Let it heal on its own. It won’t even scar, just like the mark you’d left on him. Temporary. Impermanent. Suited to a mortal, he might say. You roll aside and away and glance around to gather your clothing. Lahabrea doesn’t move.

“Satisfied now, are you, Bringer of Light?”

The voice that asks you the question is surprisingly composed, lacking in the familiar mockery. A smooth tone of inquiry, but carrying the unmistakable arrogance of one who always thought he was right.

“Yes.” You say, because unlike him, _you are._ So much for your unquenchable thirst, your insatiable bloodlust. All it had really taken, apparently, was a good fucking.

In the darkness, the shadowless smiles. “Then our business here is concluded.”

You can’t even see it and you know it to be false.

You wonder if it’s the same for him, when you return the smirk.

**Author's Note:**

> So I am in a Discord now. What can I say? They promised they would be nice to me and yell about fics and encourage writing and I'm a slut for encouragement. Join them, and when you do, you tell them who sent you ;) I'll be sure to say hi, although I might miss your joining if you come at an unlucky time. https://discord.gg/dvCMr3v
> 
> Special thanks to illegible - yeah the person from Ao3 - who gave me a prompt that ended with me writing this fic, despite me originally intending to throw this in Discord. On the bright side, I wrote like 5k words in 2 days, so that's something! 
> 
> Hope you guys enjoyed. If you want me to write a sequel, I make no promises, but please feel free to tell me how much you loved it and how fantastic a writer you think I am and how you think my hair just looks so great today, and you know what would be good, more talking about Lahabrea's hair in the sequel, what do you say January, go on and write it, in the comments or on Discord. I will shamelessly admit that I'm perfectly capable of it, given proper motivation, and I am a simple woman who enjoys simple things, like writing, and sharing it, and knowing people enjoyed it, and owning a Lahabrea.


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